


Violent obsession

by ash_carpenter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Disturbing Themes, Gen, M/M, Unrequited, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ash_carpenter/pseuds/ash_carpenter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam needs his brother back, but he doesn't seem to understand that Dean doesn't want his cure or his help. In fact, Dean only wants one thing from Sam: a slow, painful death.</p><p>
  <i>The thick bones of Sam’s wrist feel like bird wings in his unforgiving grip; he could grind them to dust. He wants to.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violent obsession

**Author's Note:**

> (Set over 10.02 (Reichenbach) and 10.03 (Soul Survivor), so it's demon!Dean. Not wincest, although there are unrequited incestuous feelings that Dean taunts Sam with. Warnings for graphic violent imagery and desires for fratricide; it's all from Dean's POV.)

** Violent obsession **

Dead men don’t sleep, but they can dream.

Every time Dean closes his eyes there’s a whirlwind of crimson, his Mark pulsing and burning firebrand-bright while images kaleidoscope through his mind. Flames and blood-wet steel, the charnel stench of slaughterhouses and necks snapping pop-pop-pop like firecrackers.

Elbows-deep in viscera, razor-slashed grin shining wet and hungry, he conducts the symphony of screams as muzzle-flashes explode behind his eyelids and the gun-smoke shroud caresses his skin. It’s all a delicious jumble of pain and violence, and he suspects that it’s more memory than imagination. Apart from the faces.

At first, they’re blank. Sunken holes for eyes and gruesomely flat, unblemished _nothing_ where their other features should be. But as he sinks deeper and the hellish theatre closes in on him, a shadow-puppet predator, the faces twist and morph bonelessly. And when they finish their formless, Dali-esque dance, they’re all Sam.

_Sam, Sam, Sam._

Dean blinks himself back into the moment, obsidian lens skewing the world a darker shade. He’s hard again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

During his year staring Hell down, Dean spent a lot of time considering what he’d be like as a demon. He constructed a hundred different scenarios and none of them come close to the reality.

The biggest surprise is Sam. It always is.

Dean assumed he’d still love the kid in his own psychotic, demonic way. One of his biggest fears was that he’d try to drag Sam to Hell just to have him close forever.

But that’s not how it is. Not at all. He retains just enough consideration to put a thousand miles between them, but that’s the best he can do – and he doesn’t even _want_ to do that. What he wants is to take his brother apart piece by piece. He wants to shred him into something unrecognisable and take his time over it. He thinks he could make Sam scream for _days_.

Dean tried hundreds of techniques working the rack, maybe thousands. But he never knew anyone well enough to break them utterly, in every possible way. With Sam he could shoot for the unholy trifecta: physical, emotional and psychological. He could Humpty Dumpty Sam’s ass and nothing could ever piece him together again.

Lucifer is Bush League compared to Dean Winchester.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam doesn’t listen when Dean tells him not to follow. Perhaps that shouldn’t be a surprise, but usually it’s Dean who does the chasing, so it was worth a shot. Fuckin’ contrary little brat didn’t bother looking when Dean was stuck in Purgatory and actually needed him; figures that he’d suddenly step up to the plate when it’s in precisely no-one’s best interest.

For all of five minutes, Dean tries not to wonder what Sam’s arterial blood tastes like. Once he starts down that road, it’s a dark switchback path, and excited little tremors shiver up his spine to ricochet through his ribs and echo softly in the Mark. It beats like a soothing baseline, picking up the rhythm of his heart. Soon he’s pondering whether Sam’s thoughts are following the same gluttonous thread; after all, he’s the demon blood junkie.

Handcuffed in the back of the car, wrists burning like Hellfire and guts all knotted up with sick, eager anticipation, Dean’s chubbing up in his jeans. The pain’s a sweet tease and his mind’s a beautiful battlefield, all carnage and devastation. He knows a way to lock the bunker down that he doesn’t think his little brother has found yet; he can turn their subterranean home into a red-soaked labyrinth.

He’s gonna make one motherfucker of a Minotaur.

Dean spreads his legs a little to make room for his dick and then destroys Sam’s silly notion that he granted mercy to the stupid fuck who thought he was Inigo Montoya. He’s done trying to protect Sam from anything, including himself. He gave the kid a fair chance to stay away and Sam didn’t take it, so now Dean gets to play.

_And what I’m gonna do to you, Sammy? Well, that ain’t gonna be mercy either._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean can scent Sam, like the animal he is now. And Sam smells _weak_.

Partly it’s the clipped wing and weeks without enough food or sleep, whisky burning holes in his veins. Mostly it’s the sorrow and soul-sickness. All his gauges are on empty; bringing Dean in took the last of what he’s got, like the final sprint finish to an uphill marathon. Until he gets some rest and fuel, he won’t be able to fend off any attacks, even verbal.

“Pretty convenient having a dungeon, huh Sammy? Those Men of Letters were some kinky fucks.”

“Not sure that sex was the primary motivation, Dean,” says Sam tiredly. He’s double-triple-checking that the enchanted cuffs around Dean’s wrists are secure and that he won’t be able to escape from the chair. He seems equally relieved and disappointed that Dean can’t break a devil’s trap.

“Don’t be too sure. There’s something about having a person all tied up and at your mercy that just jacks you up. Isn’t that right?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Right. Regular little Boy Scout, my brother. Well, I can tell you that it’s a trip. There was this girl in Iowa, first week after I woke up all darkside. She was supposed to be giving me a lap-dance, but she saw the eyes and went crazy, babbling some religious Spanish shit. I mean literally crazy. Ended up in the local nuthouse.”

Sam’s face is expressionless, but he hasn’t turned and left yet. Dean knows he’s curious – and that he’ll be sorry for that later.

“Thing is, she still owed me that dance. So, I broke into the asylum. Took me a little while to find her, and they’d locked her up _good_. Whole nine, she had her own room with nothing sharp, no belts and so forth. They hadn’t drugged her though, at least not much, because she recognised me. I had to gag her to keep her from screaming the place down.”

Sam’s eyes are wide. Dean can tell that the kid already knows that he doesn’t want to hear the end of this story, but it’s too late now. The horror is creeping slowly over Sam, like some poisonous vine that insinuates itself around your body and immobilises you before you really know it’s there. And that’s all well and good, but Dean’s kinda a fan of horror that marches up and punches you in the face.

“She was still wearing the straightjacket when I fucked her.”

Sam gasps, shaking his head in denial. Everything he knows about his brother makes this little tale practically blasphemous, and Sam just can’t believe that being a demon changes the fundamentals. He’s wrong, of course. Because human Dean would rather have cut out his own heart than hurt Sam, whereas right now Dean wants to bury his teeth in all of Sam’s soft and vulnerable places.

“Anyway, like I said… Hell of a trip to have someone in your power. And don’t pretend that you don’t like it, Sammy, having me like this. We both know that it’s solid gold spank bank material for you.”

Sam looks shocked and shaken, does his deer-in-headlights imitation, and Dean smiles cruelly.

“Come on. You must know that I’ve always known, right? I may have been a master of denial, but I’m not an idiot. And you’re not subtle.”

Sam swallows hard, blinks, then tries to brazen it out and ignore it. He’s literally shaking, though, tremors trilling through his fingers as he lays the syringes out like fallen soldiers. Poor kid thought he’d done so well in keeping his sick, pathetic crush a secret, but Dean probably knew before he did.

“Hot for your own brother. No wonder you were a perfect fit for Lucifer; you’ve had one foot in Hell pretty much your whole life. And to be clear here, it was just you. Now I can at least appreciate the perverted, twisted thrill of it, but before… Well, I tried not to think about it, but the idea turned my stomach.”

Sam’s still pretending not to hear, but even with his back turned, Dean can see the shame scorching through him like wildfire. He wonders why Sam doesn’t walk away, whether it’s morbid curiosity or self-flagellation. Either way, fun fun fun. Since he can’t currently get his hands on the hardware, he’ll have to twist the metaphorical knife instead.

“Do you want to know the saddest part? I was so weak and pitiful that I almost gave you what you wanted, just to stop you from leaving. Can you believe that? I nearly rolled over and let you do any dirty little thing you felt like, because I was so scared of being by myself.”

Sam finally turns, jaw set and eyes blazing. Interesting that he’s more reactive when Dean’s insulting the sad sack he used to be than on his own behalf. Well, fine: Dean can use that.

“No. You would never have even considered it, not that. You’re lying. That’s what demons do: they lie,” insists Sam, voice tight and strained.

“No, what demons do is give you just enough truth to hurt you.”

“Okay, fine. If it’s true, then what stopped you? You practically fucking _begged_ me not to go,” he spits, mistakenly thinking that he can invoke either anger or embarrassment by digging into the deep well of humiliation and worthlessness that Dean carried as a human. “So how come you drew the line at offering yourself up? I know it wasn’t pride.”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” asks Dean, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No. But all of this is making me feel a lot less guilty about how much I’m going to hurt you while I cure you.”

Dean chuckles. “That’s cute. I like the fire, Sammy, I do. But you’re not even gonna get _close_ to ‘curing’ me. Still, I’ll tell you why. I would have done it, I’d have bitten a pillow for you and let you get off in me, no matter how much it made me wanna hurl or killed me inside, but for one thing.” He laughs derisively to himself. “I was scared that I wouldn’t be a good enough lay and you’d leave anyway.”

“No,” Sam says again, soft and unconvincing. Dean’s gratified to see that his eyes are glassy, wet with threatening tears. “I wouldn’t have…”

“Wouldn’t have what? Fucked me and then headed out the door, leaving me broken?” He scoffs. “Please. Even back then, I didn’t trust you enough to offer you _that_. If you’d gotten what you wanted, you’d probably never have come back at all.”

“Shut up! No, you’re wrong,” snaps Sam, turning his back again. This time he does strike for the door, trying to escape, and Dean knows it’s because the dam has broken and the tears are tracking down Sam’s face. He can smell the brine and, more deliciously, the exquisite pain.

Dean’s got a gunslinger heart, and parting shots are his speciality.

“Ask me again why I don’t want to be cured, Sam. Why would I ever want to go back to being that pathetic, crippled, needy thing?”

Sam flees, chased by Dean’s venom and the ghosts of their shared past.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean taunts Sam through every shot, throwing his perversion in his face like a handful of lye. It burns and blinds him, distracts him enough that he can’t see Dean’s end game.

When Dean feels the sharp tug of the scales tipping, humanity scouring a nasty red blaze through the darkness, he pushes a little harder. He bows his back and thrusts his hips up obscenely, lets Sam see the clear outline of his erection against his thigh. Then he invites Sam to do something about it.

_Come on, Sammy. I’ll give you one free ride. You’ve fantasised about sitting on my dick, right? Sure you have. I’m a generous guy: I don’t mind throwing you a pity fuck before I rip your throat out._

As expected, Sam can’t take it. He retreats, shaken up, his belly a writhing mass of fear and disgust and a shameful, ugly heat. His timing is damned near perfect.

Getting through the devil’s trap hurts like a motherfucker, Dean’s blood boiling and frothing in his veins and neck cords straining against his sweat-slick skin, but he has just enough human juice to do it. Thank you, Sammy.

Dean relishes the thrill of the chase, stalking his little brother through their underground maze of a home with the pleasing weight of the hammer in his palm. It’s worth getting locked in the electrical room just so that he can Jack Nicholson his way out of the door, and the panic in Sam’s eyes is truly a beautiful thing.

Sam doesn’t stand a chance; he’s at the enormous disadvantage of not wanting to hurt his opponent. Dean almost feels sorry for him.

The ‘stand-off’ is weak, Dean only vaguely thrilled by the knife at his throat because he knows damned well that Sam isn’t going to use it. He sees despair and defeat blossoming in Sam’s eyes, turning the dancing hazel to dull mud, and he pulls his own eye-colour trick. Personally, he thinks black looks great on him, but Sam’s all guilty and pitying again at the sight. It makes Dean want to pop the kid’s eyeballs with a fire-heated skewer, like lancing out an infection.

Sam’s grip on the knife wavers and that’s all she wrote, folks. It’s a matter of seconds to knock the weapon from his hands and have him pinned face-first against the cold brickwork, and Dean revels in how much stronger he is now. The thick bones of Sam’s wrist feel like bird wings in his unforgiving grip; he could grind them to dust. He wants to.

Sam’s like a butterfly nailed to a board; he’s pretty but pointless, squirming ineffectively and good for nothing other than Dean’s curious, poking amusement. Dean doesn’t want this to end quickly, but he needs a quick heady fix of violence to sate his raging blood and the insistent call of the Mark, his very own tell-tale heart throbbing to a beat that only he can hear. He slams the hammer into Sam’s pinky finger, crushing it against the wall. The splintering bone is audible even above Sam’s scream and Dean closes his eyes ecstatically.

Pressing up the length of Sam’s back, Dean coos at him and runs a hand through his hair, making comforting shushing noises; incredibly, it kind of works, and a lifetime of conditioning has Sam choking off his agonised noises and slumping into his brother, just a little. His hand is shaking, the little finger a twisted, pulverised mess of blood and bone fragment. The other arm must be shrieking too: the breaks aren’t close to healed and they just got smacked into several feet of brick and concrete by the combined weight of two big men.

“Sammy, Sammy… I’m sorry. I just got a little carried away there,” he says with a mock soothing tone, stroking his fingers over the long, taut line of Sam’s neck. “I’m gonna get you all strapped into that big comfy chair before I break anything else, I promise. But before we get there, I have something to offer you. My last gift to my baby brother.”

Sam looses a wretched sob when Dean presses the hard ridge of his cock against his ass.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Sam: it’s your pain that gets me off, not your body. But you won’t know the difference when I’m balls-deep, fucking into that tight little ass of yours. So do you want it, hmm? It’s the only chance you’ll ever get.”

“Get off me, you sick fuck,” he hisses against the wall, pressing as close as he can to the brickwork to try to escape the evidence of Dean’s new depravity. Dean just pushes harder, grinding against him and grunting with pleasure when the pressure on Sam’s broken arm makes him cry out.

“Aw, don’t be like that. I know you probably fantasised about fucking me instead, but my days of being a little bitch are done. I bet you thought about holding me down, didn’t you? About using me, fucking my mouth, coming on my face…? Did you want me on my knees?”

Sam shakes his head, a couple of stray tears spilling over his cheek and hanging there, reflecting the stark, functional light of the corridor and turning into multi-coloured prisms. “No. I never wanted to do anything except love you.”

There’s a small, painful lurch in Dean’s chest and he resents the human blood that Sam pumped into his heart. Snarling slightly, he tramples the rogue feeling into the dirt and gives Sam a vicious shake, knocking his head against the wall.

“Fuckin’ liar. Everyone’s the same when they see this pretty package and want a piece of it. Well, until it’s too late and I unleash the Hell underneath the wrapping paper. The last guy who told me he wanted to fuck my sweet mouth? I cut off his dick and fed it to him.”

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and Dean thinks he’s trying to block…the words? The pain? This shitty life he leads? Everything, maybe.

“People can’t help it, Dean. Your whole life, you’ve drawn them – and, yeah, some of them try to take things they shouldn’t, things you don’t want to give. But not everyone’s like that. _I’m_ not like that.”

“The hell you aren’t.”

“I never asked you for a damned thing. You told me earlier that you almost gave me what I wanted – and that was _without_ me asking. If I had… Be honest with yourself, if you’re still capable of that. You’d have given me anything.”

It’s true, but who cares? He isn’t that fool now, that martyr who’d cut out his own heart and hand it over if Sam asked. God, it’s sickening. And they’re getting _way_ off track. He suspects Sam’s trying to reach out to the humanity that let him cross the devil’s trap and pull it to the surface, playing on all that mushy melodrama that’s defined them for far too long. Sam’s going to be pretty fucking disappointed.

Dean shrugs carelessly, going for the jugular; Sam seems a lot more distressed about Dean’s previous psychological issues than about himself. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I expect I’d have sucked Dad’s dick too, if he’d asked. How messed up is that?”

Dean laughs when Sam chokes a little, a shocked and disgusted sound. “Exactly – so don’t feel too special, little brother. Anyway, enough of this crap. We’re gonna go play in the dungeon – unless you want to take up that offer…?”

Sam mewls and curses when Dean’s hand unexpectedly closes over his crotch and gives it a harsh squeeze. He tries to escape again, but Dean’s at his back, hips and thighs still pinning him to the wall, and it hurts more than it achieves. His cock’s soft, obviously, but as Dean roughly caresses with the heel of his palm, he swears that he feels a twitch, a surge of blood, and he thinks he probably could get Sam hard if he wanted to, even in this state.

The idea that Sam might actually enjoy getting fucked is amusing, but it takes all the fun out of it. The Mark wants blood, the demon soul wants pain and violence, and what’s left of the hunter wants victory and fire. When Sam’s eventually dead, Dean’s gonna torch the bunker and incinerate everything that’s left of a destructive and obsolete legacy.  He can already feel the heat and sweet little pinpricks of pain as windblown embers scorch his skin.

“Not in the mood? Okay, then. Let’s ditch the foreplay and move straight into the main event, huh? This place has a hundred sharp and shiny things just begging to be painted red, red, red. We might not be fucking, Sammy, but I still wanna feel you from the inside.”

Dean suddenly slams his fists forwards, one into Sam’s sling-supported elbow and one into his ruined finger. He blacks out from the agony before the scream’s even formed in his throat.

It’s disappointing, but there’ll be plenty of time for pretty sounds later. Dean whistles as he drags Sam’s limp form through the corridor, mind full of steel and crimson.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean’s barely even gotten started before Cas shows up.

He hasn’t even inflicted one single injury that Sam can’t recover from. Well, no physical ones at least.

Dean fuckin’ hates angels. And he doesn’t even think that’s a new, demonic thing. The self-righteous pricks are always interfering, poking their wings in where they’re not wanted. And Cas is worse than all the others, because he’s an abomination, a creature that God surely never intended: an angel that gives a shit about a human.

Dean goes down snarling and fighting. But he still goes down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean doesn’t really know if he’s alive again, but he needs to sleep now. He’s got no choice.

And with the sleep comes the dreams. They’re not voluntary anymore, and that’s a terrible, frightening thing, because they haven’t really changed.

His hands pet steel, honed bone nestling comfortably into his palm and rasping against his callouses. He feels the pull, deep inside, and it’s so easy to give into its seductive call. A red veil falls over his eyes and all he can see is flesh, meat for hacking and slicing. He smells sickly sweet death and he wants to roll in it, coat himself in blood and crawl into its shallow grave.

When the hunt and the kill take him over, his conscious mind retreats and watches the base animal brain at its violent and instinctive best. Very little registers other than pleasure and pain and every visceral, stinking thing that accompanies the transition from life to death. When he’s spent and the heat crawls back inside to its cosy lair, his thoughts claw clumsily through the thick haze of sated bloodlust. He recognises the faces at last, though he knew all along.

They’re all still Sam.

 

THE END


End file.
